


One Hundred Ways to Say...

by nolaespoir



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Drabble Collection, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-05
Updated: 2016-06-11
Packaged: 2018-05-24 19:10:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 100
Words: 10,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6163581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nolaespoir/pseuds/nolaespoir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>100 days of 100-word fluff drabbles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. "Pull over. Let me drive for awhile."

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the Tumblr post, "One Hundred Ways Ways to Say 'I Love You'."

“Pull over. Let me drive for awhile.”

The frozen black tundra stretched before them, deadly. Like an oil spill waiting for a spark. 

“I’m fine,” Arthur said. 

Eames huffed in the passenger seat. “You’re exhausted. And we’ve run out of caffeine.” 

Arthur looked about, panicked. Truck stop coffee cups, two liters of soda—all empty. 

“Can you drive a stick?”

“… Shit.” 

“I guess you’re not driving.”

“You work so hard keeping the rest of us alive," Eames said quietly. “I feel like an arse, just sitting by.”

Arthur didn’t look at him.

“Just stay awake and talk to me, yeah?”


	2. "It reminded me of you."

"It reminded me of you."

Eames gave Arthur a wry stare—the sort Arthur usually reserved for Eames, actually—and unfurled the pale pink shirt Arthur had tossed at him.

'CZECH ME OUT!' it declared, bold and obnoxious and _very_ Eames. A find from the souvenir shop on the corner.

Eames barked a laugh, and then immediately winced.

"You're an idiot," Arthur said, falling to a crouch beside him. Deftly he peeled away the bunch of fabric that was pressed, bloody and ruined, against Eames’s side.  Eames gritted his teeth, but otherwise let Arthur work. “Such an idiot.”

“Thank you.” 


	3. “No, no, it’s my treat.”

“No, no, it’s my treat.” Eames waved away the crisp grey €5 in Arthur's hand.

Arthur frowned. "What's the catch?"

“Does there need to be a catch?”

“You just woke up and thought, ‘Today I'm going to buy Arthur a’”—Arthur broke off to take a sip of the proffered drink—“A perfectly... a perfect…” His eyes slipped shut.

“A perfectly perfect café viennois?”

“… How did you know?”

“That your black coffee habit’s a rouse and you secretly love disgustingly sugary drinks, like a child? It's my job.”

“It's really not.”

“Let’s say I've taken up an amateur interest, then.”


	4. “Come here. Let me fix it.”

“Come here. Let me fix it.”

Eames looked down at his front, as though he might be able to see his own bow tie like that. “What’s wrong with it?”

“Nothing, if you mean to look like a 14-year-old boy at Homecoming.” Arthur shook his head and tried to keep his mouth from twitching. He stepped close and began re-knotting the fabric. “I thought you went to, what, Eton? Harrow? They didn’t teach you this?”

Eames’s breath was warm on Arthur’s downturned face.

“You trust my CV. That's so sweet.”

“Eames…”

“Any excuse to get your hands on me, pet.”

 


	5. "I'll walk you home."

“I’ll walk you home,” Eames said, opening his umbrella. From the warehouse loading deck they could see the grey Shizuishan rain flooding the shallow streets.

Arthur touched his own nice suit mournfully, but nodded.

“This isn’t home,” Arthur said later, at the hotel, damp despite Eames’s chivalry—if that was the word for it.

“No, it isn’t,” Eames agreed. People like them didn’t have homes, because it was easier not to. “Might be nice, though. Some day.”

“You think that’s how it ends for us? A house in the country?”

“A home. We’re not so undeserving as you fear, darling.”


	6. “Have a good day at work."

“Have a good day at work,” Arthur said.

“You are loving this, aren’t you?” Eames adjusted his glasses—tortoise shell, non-prescription. “I don’t know the first thing about ‘artisanal craft beer’.”

“I bet you are going to learn _lots_.” Arthur's dimples were showing.

“Surely these trousers are a bit short?”

“No, they’re just right. Don’t forget your trilby.”

“My _what?”_

 _“_ Your hat.”

Eames grabbed it up with a put-upon grimace.Arthur reached over and tilted it just so.

“Hey. You’re the one who came in here with that _beard_ down to your chest. I’m just working with what we’ve got.”


	7. “I dreamt about you last night.”

“I dreamt about you last night.” Eames practically purred as he came up behind Arthur at his desk.

Arthur startled. “Gross. And inappropriate.”

“Who said anything about gross or inappropriate? Maybe we were picnicking in the alps.”

Arthur’s breath caught on the _we_. He cleared his throat and asked, “Were we picnicking in the alps?”

“No, but you had on the most delightful—”

“— _Mr. Eames_.”

“Hugo Boss does do a _lovely_ boxer-brief, I’ll grant you that, but if you should ever re-consider your stance on going commando, for special occasions…”

“Why? Do you have one on your calendar?”

"I could."


	8. “Take my seat."

“Take my seat,” Arthur said in his curt, Point Man voice. A command.

“‘M fine,” Eames said around a yawn. He swayed and gripped the pole tighter, but Arthur thought mostly it was the press of people on the metro that was keeping him upright.

“You’re dead on your feet is what you are. _Sit.”_ Arthur shoved him so he fell into the open seat.

“Okay.”

“Are you going to even be able to make it back to your hotel? It was stupid of you to go it alone tonight, Eames.” Arthur sighed. “I’ve got an apartment in Le Marais…”


	9. “I saved a piece for you."

“I saved a piece for you,” Eames said, holding out a modest slice of wedding cake on a plastic plate. “Unless your tailor would have my neck for it. You’re positively stitched into that suit, aren’t you?”

Arthur took the cake and the seat beside Eames, stuffing a bite in his mouth as he watched Dom sweep Mal out onto the floor to the first notes of Édith Piaf.

Eames wasn’t watching the newlyweds, but he was smiling.

“They look happy, don’t they?” Arthur asked. “Makes you think maybe that sort of thing really is possible. For people like us.”


	10. "I'm sorry for your loss."

“‘I’m sorry for your loss,’” Arthur said, his face crumpling into something ugly and hurt. “‘ _I’m_ _so sorry for your loss.’_ That’s all they say. That’s all anyone knows how to say.” His knees gave out and he hit the carpeted floor, hard. 

Eames let the hotel door close behind him with a soft click as he dropped his bag. He approached Arthur cautiously before sinking to his knees, too.

“How could she do that, Eames? _How could she?”_

Eames didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. He wrapped his arms around Arthur’s slight, shaking body and didn’t let go. 


	11. “You can have half."

“You can have half,” Eames said, clearly considering it a magnanimous offer.

“It’s fine. I don’t want to steal your lunch,” said Arthur.

“Don’t worry. I’ve got plenty.”

Arthur eyed the dish—something gelatinous and offending—from a safe distance. Eames plated himself a generous portion and said cheerfully, “I made it myself.”

“You cook?”

“Yeah. A little.” Eames considered the slop on his plate and had just enough sense to look sheepish. “I mean, I’m trying to learn.”

And it was the worst thing, to see Eames suddenly deflated, and Arthur said, “It smells fantastic. Pass me a plate?”


	12. “Take my jacket. It’s cold outside."

“Take my jacket. It’s cold outside,” said Arthur, barely looking up from his desk. It was February in Minsk. _Cold_ was an understatement.

“While I appreciate the offer, darling, I’m not sure your lovely Zegna will do me much good, even if I could fit into it.”

Arthur looked offended, or maybe just aghast. “I wasn’t offering you the _Zegna_. My _coat_. It’s in the closet. It’s too big for me, anyway, so you should be fine.”

Unconvinced, Eames went to the closet. What he pulled out was a well-worn Canada Goose coat he thought he had misplaced years ago.


	13. "Sorry I'm late."

“Sorry I’m late,” Eames said—slurred, really—as he came awake. The warehouse had gone dark in the time he’d been under. The lie-in hadn’t exactly been scheduled, but an argument with the Extractor had gone sour, and Eames had been dropped a level as penance.

The team had already cleared out.

Everyone except for Arthur, that was. Arthur the Point Man, who always saw jobs through to the very end. He was sitting beside Eames, staring blankly ahead.

Eames watched as he threw his die on the floor.

“Don’t do that again,” Arthur whispered, unable to look at him.


	14. “Can I have this dance?”

“Can I have this dance?” Arthur asked, holding out a hand to Eames. The street was crowded and the busker was good and Eames almost laughed, because Arthur couldn’t be serious.

Except maybe he was.

Because Eames hadn’t laughed in too long and Arthur looked hopeful just then.

It’d been a hard job for Eames. Arthur knew that.

His hand was there, waiting.

“Come on, Mr. Eames.” Quiet but urging. A small, dimpled smile.

Eames took Arthur’s hand and sank against him, let himself be held close and held up.

“That’s better,” Arthur said. And they danced until it was.


	15. “I made your favorite."

“I made your favorite,” Eames announced, too triumphantly for comfort.

Arthur sniffed the air. Something faintly pungent wafted toward him, gaining momentum as Eames produced a container from behind his back and held it aloft.

Something inside it wobbled, grey and slick.

“I remembered how much you liked it the last time I cooked it.”

Arthur swallowed thickly and tried to smile.

Eames beamed. He began setting the table.

“Eames. I… I’m sorry, but—I can’t. I _can’t._ “

Eames was silent. Then he broke out laughing.

“Darling, _your face_. Did you honestly think I’d make you eat this shit again?”


	16. “It’s okay. I couldn’t sleep anyway.”

“It’s okay. I couldn’t sleep anyway,” Arthur said flatly, opening his hotel room door to Eames. Somewhere a clock read 3 o’clock and Arthur was in pajamas.

“You sleep too much,” Eames said. “Did you know some of the very best things happen while _you’re_ sleeping?”

“Like dreams in which I get an evening to myself, where you aren’t bothering me? Those happen when I’m sleeping. They’re nice.”

“Don’t tell lies, pet. You secretly love my bothering you.”

And because Arthur was still feeling sleep-honest, he didn’t deny it. Instead he shuffled over to the minibar.

“What will it be?”


	17. “Watch your step."

“Watch your step,” Eames warned as Arthur shouldered his way into the room. It reeked of urine and air freshener.

Arthur sighed and leveled an exasperated look at Eames. “Where are they?

“I have no idea what you mean—“

“Mr. Eames.”

“ _Arthur.”_

Eames fashioned his face into the very picture of innocence. Arthur glared.

Then noises: small, excited whines from the next room. Eames lunged to block Arthur but the Point Man was quicker. He threw open the door and a flock of plump, fuzzy puppies swarmed his legs.

“I’m watching them for a friend.”

“You stole them, didn’t you?”


	18. “Here, drink this. You’ll feel better."

“Here, drink this. You’ll feel better,” said Arthur, holding out a mug to Eames as he joined him on the couch.

“It’s not tea, is it?”

Arthur balked. “I thought you liked tea.”

“I do like tea. When someone who knows how to make tea, makes it for me.”

“That was one time! You are so precious about your tea.”

Eames’s eyes flickered from Arthur to the proffered mug and back.

“It’s not tea!” Arthur said. “It’s hot chocolate.”

“Very adult.”

“Excuse me, _you’re_ the one who risked hypothermia because you wanted to build a snowman. In Moscow. In January.”


	19. "Can I hold your hand?"

****“Can I hold your hand?” Eames asked.

“What?” Arthur looked vaguely scandalized and clasped his hand to his chest, as though Eames might actually _try and hold it._ It was a balmy spring evening and they were stood outside a bistro on the Upper East Side, waiting for a hostess to call Arthur’s name. Through the front window he could just glimpse the mark and his girlfriend seated at the bar.

“I’m just trying to establish ground rules here, pet.”

“Right,” Arthur said. _The job._ “I guess—since it’s meant to be our anniversary—sure. You can hold my hand.”


	20. "You can borrow mine."

“You can borrow mine,” said Arthur, trying to calm Eames down. He had just finished checking his pockets, trying to find his poker chip, to no avail.

Arthur sank his hand into his trouser pocket and withdrew his candy-red die; he held it out in his palm, toward Eames.

“Arthur,” Eames warned. “That’s not how it works.”

“It’s exactly how it works, in a dream it—“

“Darling. Once you know the weight of someone else’s totem, you can’t take that back.”

“In a dream it lands on three, every time.”

“Arthur…”

“Eames. I trust you.”

Eames rolled the die: four.

 


	21. "You might like this."

“You might like this,” Eames said, stealing a silk top hat. He tossed it to Arthur, who caught it with a dusty cough.

The room was cramped and dim. Racks of moth-eaten costumes, forgotten hats and wigs on porcelain mannequin heads. A crypt in the back of a small London playhouse.

“I spent ages back here as a boy, when my mum was on stage, certain someday I would fall in love with a boy who could pull off tails and a just hat like that.”

Arthur held Eames’s gaze as he very deliberately put on the hat.

It fit.


	22. “It’s not heavy. I’m stronger than I look."

“It’s not heavy. I’m stronger than I look,” Arthur said, when Eames tried to take the Pasiv off him. They were wedged, both of them, into a narrow alley, breathing loudly, waiting for the coast to clear. Arthur held tightly to the machine with one hand; in the other he carried a duffle bag of cash.

“Pet, honestly, let me carry _something—“_

“I’m not going to drop it, Mr. Eames. I promise.” They would have to run soon, again, and Arthur was annoyed at the insinuation that he was so inept—

“It’s not the Pasiv I’m concerned about,” Eames snapped.


	23. "I'll wait."

"I'll wait," Eames said, standing without a ticket on the wrong side of airport security. 

Arthur hitched his bag up high on his shoulder and looked away, pained. Dom had already joined the queue, was taking off his shoes and emptying his pockets, dead-eyed and frayed at the edges. Eames handed Arthur a passport for one Mr. Ronald Dukoff. 

"Dom needs me right now."

"I know."

"And I have to look after him, for Mal."

"I know."

"But Eames. I don't want to go."

"Oh darling. Just come and find me, yeah? When it's done?"

Arthur nodded. "I will. Promise."


	24. "Just because."

“Just because,” Arthur explained on screen, a thousand miles away—five thousand miles away. Eames didn’t know anymore—for his own good, apparently.

“Just because?” Eames said, clarifying. He looked down once more at the pair of bunny ears in his hands, which had arrived at his doorstep that morning in an unmarked parcel. “Is this a… sexy thing?”

Arthur clearly blanched, pixelated as his image was. “… Do you want it to be a sexy thing?”

“I mean, I never _have_ , but if this is what does it for you…”

“Jesus, Eames. It’s Easter. I just thought you’d look… cute.”


	25. "Look both ways."

“Look both ways," Eames reminded him, because Eames loved to tease Arthur about the first job they’d pulled together in London, years ago, when Eames had saved him from getting run down by a lorry by pulling him back _just in the nick of time._

“It’s not my fault they drive on the wrong side.”

“It’s not the wrong side.”

“Well it’s not the right!”

“Maybe just look both ways from now on?”

_God_ , Eames loved that story.

“It makes me nervous when I’m not there to save you,” Eames said.

At the intersection, Arthur looked both ways and crossed. 


	26. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to."

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to,” Arthur said, coming up behind Eames as he rifled through his bag. 

“Didn’t mean to what?” Eames asked, turning.

Arthur held up exactly what Eames had been looking for.

“Honestly I don’t know how it got in with my stuff!”

It was a hideous shirt. Arthur _hated_ the shirt. But of course Eames loved it, _adored_ it. And Arthur had accidentally shrunk it.

Eames grabbed the shirt and defiantly _wiggled_ into it. It stretched tight across his barrel chest.

Arthur gaped.

“Would you look at that? It fits even better now.”

Arthur couldn’t disagree. 


	27. "Try Some."

“Try some,” Eames said, nodding to the bowl between them, from which Eames was dragging fingerfuls of ugali to mop up the dredges of his sukuma wiki. “It’s plain but decent.”

Arthur eyed the starchy white ball. “Dom is going to come looking for you. You should turn him down when he does.”

“And why’s that, pet?”

“Because the job is going to be a shit show and you should stay away.”

“You came all this way just to tell me that?”

“What? No. I… came for the food.” Arthur plunged his hand into the bowl.

Eames watched him, charmed. 


	28. "Drive safely."

“Drive safely,” Arthur said. _Pleaded_. Eames grinned and revved the engine, momentarily startling Arthur away from the driver side door. He surged forward again. “Eames, I mean it. This is a 1965—“ 

“Porsche 356 Cabriolet. You said.”

Arthur was not good at letting other people behind the wheel of his car, but the mark was a classic car buff with a weakness for Porsche speedsters. The team had agreed: this was their best bet of getting Eames close enough for the grab.

“Arthur. I’ll take care of her.”

Arthur did have to admit: it was kind of a beautiful sight. 


	29. "Well, what do you want to do?"

“Well, what do you want to do?” Eames asked, presumably in Arthur’s direction. According to news reports—which Arthur had perused swiftly before powering down his phone to conserve its battery—the grid was out city-wide, plunging a ten-mile radius into an inky, impenetrable black.

“I don’t know. Strip poker?”

“Arthur, don’t tease, pet. My heart can’t handle it.”

“I’m serious.”

“But we can’t see anything!” Eames whined.

“Then it will be that much more of a challenge, won’t it?”

“’Challenge’? That is one word for it. Here’s one more—“

“Going once, going twice.”

“Fine.” His pout was a given.

 


	30. "One more chapter."

“One more chapter?” Arthur asked, his eyes already closing. _The Three Musketeers_ lay open, face down, on his chest.

Eames couldn’t stop himself from pushing a curl of hair back from Arthur’s clammy, warm forehead, saying—almost to himself—“Just checking your temperature.”

“Please?” Arthur asked again.

Eames grabbed the book and cleared his throat. Then he paused.

“You know, pet, when I imagined finally getting you into bed, I imagined it very differently.”

Arthur coughed, dry and painful, into Eames’s face.

“Sorry,” Arthur said, cold medicine woozy.

“I am glad you called,” Eames whispered, but Arthur was already asleep. 


	31. "Don't worry about me."

“Don’t worry about me.” The voice was faint, far away, crackling, but Arthur was certain it was—

“Eames?” The connection was weak. Arthur ducked out of the noisy café where he had been enjoying an espresso with his morning paper. On the street he pressed a finger to one ear and tried to listen.

“—Whatever you hear, just—“ Eames was shouting over the din of steel buckling, crumbling concrete. The staccato of gun fire.

“Eames! Where are you—” Frantic, Arthur tried to remember the last rumor he’d heard. Something about a job in Istanbul…

“Darling, I—“

The line went dead.


	32. "It looks good on you."

“It looks good on you,” Arthur said, staring down at Eames in his hospital bed, finally coming awake.

Eames was stopped from immediately turning to find the button for the morphine drip by the brace around his neck and the plaster cast on his wrist.

Arthur crossed his arms and tried to arrange his face into a familiar, comforting expression: smug. It almost worked, except that his eyes were red-rimmed with exhaustion and something else.

“You’re lucky one of us still has friends in the Turkish Land Forces.”

“’Tis but a scratch,” Eames said.

But Arthur didn’t feel like playing.


	33. “Close your eyes and open your hands."

“Close your eyes and open your hands,” Eames said, keeping his own hands behind his back.

“If you’re planning on slapping your dick in my hands, Mr. Eames, _please_ remember this isn’t college.”

“Give me _a little_ credit, Arth—wait, what? _Where did you go to college_? I have so many questions—“

“Eames.”

“Right, yes. Close them.”

After a moment of trepidation, Arthur did. A solid weight dropped into his palms: plaster.

“All healed!” Eames announced.

“Your wrist looks disgusting.”

“It’s going to take a little work to get back into fighting form, I grant you…”

“And there it is.”


	34. “That’s okay, I bought two."

“That’s okay, I bought two,” Arthur said, holding out a cut cigar to Eames.

Eames hesitated, but took it when Arthur insisted.

“I never took you for a cigar man,” Eames admitted.

“I’m not, but I know you like them. Cigar smoke—it reminds me of you. The tabac across from my place in Paris—the proprietor’s always smoking them. I didn’t realize, until after you went missing, and the smell started driving me half-insane… Anyway, I went out and bought the most expensive ones I could find, and I promised myself that we’d smoke them together, one day.”

“Cheers.”


	35. "After you."

“After you.” Eames waved Arthur forward as the elevator door chimed and slid open.

Arthur straightened his tie and stepped in.

“Aren’t you proud of me for being so gentlemanly?” Eames asked.

“How exactly are you being gentlemanly?”

“I let you go first.”

Arthur considered this. “Actually, if the elevator is empty, the gentleman is meant to enter first. To ensure it’s safe. For the lady.”

“Are you _mansplaining_ to me right now?”

“No. What? Who taught you that word? I don’t think it means what you think it means.”

Eames gaped at him.

Arthur sighed.

“It’s called _etiquette_ , Eames.”


	36. "We'll figure it out."

“We’ll figure it out,” Arthur said, his voice strained. “Eames. We’ll—”

Eames shoved past him and began to pack, half-frantic.

“There’s no ‘we’ here,” Eames said dully, already zipping up his duffle. Always be ready for a quick exit—that was his motto. Wasn’t it?

“But—“

“Arthur, I’m serious. Stay out of it. It’ll be better for you if you just stay out of it.”

“But I can help. You know I can. Saving your ass is practically—no, it _is_ —my job.”

“You’re not running _point_ on my life, love. Not this time.”

Eames shut the door behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the random bouts of angst. We'll get back to the fluff. Promise.


	37. "Can I kiss you?"

“Can I kiss you?” Eames asked desperately, when Arthur opened up the door a moment later. Eames laid his head against the door frame and looked at Arthur with wide, terrified eyes.  

"Can you _what_?"  

"Just once. I don't want to leave without—“

"You _asshole._  No, you cannot kiss me." 

Eames shut his eyes. "Okay." 

“You cannot _kiss me_  and _run off to El Salvador alone_ to hunt down some shady diplomat who wants you dead." 

_"Okay."_

_"_ But you _can_ kiss me and take me with you." 

"Life with you is going to be a ceaseless negotiation, isn't it, pet?" 


	38. "I like your laugh."

“I like your laugh,” said Arthur. “I like your lips. I _love_ your co—“

“Except I can’t trust you, can I? Any of that.” Eames said.

“Because I said your sartorial aesthetics were ‘lacking’?”

“Yes!”

“Eames. I have literally been giving you shit for how you dress _for years.”_

 _“_ Yeah but I didn’t realize you were _serious._ I thought it was just part of our banter.”

“It _is_ part of our banter. But also you dress like a 70-year-old man.”

Eames pouted _intently._

“This is really not how I imagined it going when I suggested you stay naked all day.”


	39. "Don't cry."

“Don’t cry,” Eames said.

“I’m not going to cry,” Arthur assured him as he settled down on the couch with the popcorn.

“You’re probably going to cry.”

“I’ll probably be just fine.” Arthur’s hand groped under Eames’s bum. “Where’s the remote?”

“I mean, you _can_ cry, but if you cry, I’ll start crying, and I’m a bit of an ugly crier. So.”

A hour and a half later, Eames turned to a dry-faced Arthur and demanded, “How are you not crying?”

“You’re right. You _are_ an ugly crier.”

“Whose stupid idea was it to watch _Marley & Me, _anyway?”

“Um. Yours?”


	40. “I made this for you."

“I made this for you,” Arthur explained, when they both blinked their eyes open and found themselves standing in the Piazza della Signoria at dusk, gold slates of light hitting the Palazzo Vecchio just so. “I know you haven’t been able to go back, after the Salter job.”

Eames, who should’ve been gawking at the Loggia dei Lanzi and the Tribunale della Mercanzia (Arthur had worked hard on their detailing), was gawking at Arthur instead.

“You can build?” he asked.

Arthur shyly looked away.

“You have a super secret talent, and you used it to give me Florence. My prince.”

 

 


	41. "Go back to sleep."

“Go back to sleep,” Eames murmured into the dark, where Arthur had shifted under the covers, still mostly asleep.

God, Eames envied him.

His body was exhausted. His mind wasn’t. Thoughts crawled, the detritus of his last job still sharp in the corners of his brain. He should get out of bed, do something productive; it was pointless, a waste, to stay. It was warm, and just where he wanted to be, but what a torture.

Arthur turned toward him and even in the dark, Eames could see his eyes open.

“I’m awake,” he said. “We can be awake together.”


	42. "Is this okay?"

“Is this okay?” Arthur asked, threading his fingers through Eames’s. It was a Sunday, and the park was full—families with dogs, with kites. Anyone could see them, sitting on this bench, Arthur with his takeaway coffee, Eames with his crossword puzzle. Anyone could see them _and know._

Arthur wanted them to know.

Eames stared down at their hands. He looked back up at Arthur. “Dangerous, this,” he said.

And he was right, of course—it was stupid, an unnecessary risk.

Arthur began to pull away.

Eames held on.

“I mean—sometimes I’m still not sure how this is real.”


	43. "I picked these for you."

“I picked these for you,” Eames said grandly, gesturing to the bowl in the middle of the table. “I know you typically like blueberries in your yogurt, but, well—this was as close as I could get.”

Arthur looked past Eames, out the French doors to the garden beyond, lush and ill-kept.

“They’re edible, right?” asked Arthur, picking one up. He rolled it between his fingers.

Eames gave him a blank stare.

“They almost look like pokeberries,” Arthur continued. “You’re sure they’re not poisonous?”

“I mean. Do you… want me to check?” Eames asked.

“And they say chivalry is dead.”


	44. "I'll drive you to the hospital."

“I’ll drive you to the hospital,” Arthur said wearily.

“I don’t need to go to hospital,” Eames said in protest, just as his knees buckled. Arthur rushed forward to seize him under his arms, to haul him back up.

 

In the car, to interrupt the painful silence, Eames said, “You’re angry that I bled all over your favorite suit, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“And you’re angry that I’ve been frequenting hospitals a bit much lately, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

But later, when Arthur is made to stay in the waiting room while Eames is stitched up, he is most angry about that.


	45. “What do you want to watch?”

“What do you want to watch?” Eames asked, grabbing up the remote.

“Are you actually asking or just pretending to ask?”

“Depends. Do you want to watch something boring?”

“Just because something’s educational doesn’t mean it’s _boring.”_

 _“_ And just because something’s boring, doesn’t mean it’s educational. Frankly darling, I’m pretty sure I knew everything I ever wanted to know about mollusks _before_ you made us watch that bloody documentary.”

“ _Frankly_ my dear, I don’t give a damn.”

“Now there’s an idea. Get over here.” Eames reached for Arthur. “You should be kissed and often, and by someone who knows how.”


	46. "You can go first."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Double-hitter tonight, on account of an ugly power outage last night + me generally feeling low and uninspired keeping me from posting yesterday. 
> 
> But you lot are the BEST and I'm so amazed and thankful anyone is still reading this.

“You can go first,” said Arthur, trying to keep his face placid. His cheeks were flushed pink from the sun and _maybe_ a hair too much spiked lemonade, which was actually _Dom’s_ fault, not his, and—

“Are you sure?” Eames looked from Arthur to the trampoline, where Philippa was launching herself to alarming heights.

Arthur’s face cracked apart into a giddy, indulgent smile. “ _Go_ ,” he said, pushing at Eames. “Or I’ll steal your turn.”

“I would fight you.”

“And you would lose.”

Eames looked scandalized, but didn’t argue. He rushed the trampoline, scaling it joyfully, without an ounce of grace.


	47. “Did you get my letter?”

“Did you get my letter?” Eames asked, entirely too far away—oceans away, countries away. A honeycomb voice at the end of a breathless spool of satellite pings.

“By ‘letter’ do you mean ‘vaguely sexually harassing postcard’?”

“Obviously.”

Arthur fingered the paper corner, gone soft from his pocket. “When will you be back?

“Quicker than you can say bob’s your uncle.”

“Bob’s my uncle.”

“Is he really?”

Arthur huffed a laugh, mingled it with a sigh—a whoosh of air tinged with wistful fondness, drifting three thousand miles.

“You’re still not here.”

“I’ll make it up to you, pet. Promise.”


	48. "I'll do it for you."

“I’ll do it for you.” Arthur said. He read the invitation over again, making a face at the generic calligraphy, the stenciled doves, before handing it back to Eames. “Of course I will.”

"But you hate big—“

“I do, yeah.” Arthur shrugged. “But I like you an awful lot, so.”

Eames was quiet. He looked down at the invitation and let his eyes go soft. “You’re sure?”

“Eames, stop being ridiculous. It’s your sister’s wedding. Of course I’m sure. Anyway, who am I to deprive the world—“

“—Just the Cotswolds, darling.”

“Fine, the Cotswolds then—of my wardrobe’s beautiful tailoring.” 


	49. "Call me when you get home."

“Call me when you get home,” Eames said, hearing the heaviness of bad dreams in Arthur’s voice, in his silences. Long jobs, the both of them, three time zones apart for as many months. “I’ll be back tomorrow, but _call_ me.”

His fight was boarding and Arthur didn’t want to hang up. “Sure,” he said. “Of course.” A second longer, a minute more. Eames making noise in his ear.

Four hours in the air, another in a cab. Arthur had his phone out the moment he stepped through the door.

The “Hello?” on the other end, sounded from the bedroom.


	50. "I think you're beautiful."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HALF WAY THERE, GUYS!

“I think you’re beautiful,” Arthur said, his throat tight, the words fierce. “How could you think—“

Eames ignored him. “What should I get this time?” he said. “A lion, maybe? Roaring like a coward. Or maybe—”

“What are you even _talking_ about?”

“It’ll be a few months yet.”

Arthur watched Eames poke at the healing gash across his stomach where the skin was red, angry. It would scar. Mar him.

Arthur didn’t care. Arthur would _always_ think Eames was so beaut—

“You don’t need to _hide_ from me, Eames,” he said. "It’s just part of the story. Your story. Ours.”


	51. "Are you sure?"

“Are you sure?” Eames watched Arthur keenly, something like fear or giddiness showing in flashes where the light caught on the whites of his eyes.

Arthur looked away to arrange his face. “It’s practical.”

“Practical,” Eames repeated.

“Economical.”

“Is it.”

“ _Eames_ ,” Arthur whined.

“I am going to make you say it, darling. You have to say it.”

“It’s stupid for us to both have an apartment in the city.”

“ _Arthur._ I don’t want to move in together because not doing so is _stupid._ Because doing so is _practical_.”

“ _Fine.”_ Arthur flushed. “How about because I want to?”

“Yeah. That’ll do.”


	52. "Have fun."

“Have fun,” Arthur said—instructed, demanded with a crook of his eyebrow—as he swabbed Eames’s wrist, unspooled a line from the PASIV and nudged the needle into the shadow of his vein.

Across the room Dom huffed a laugh and did the same to himself. Like riding a bike.

“I thought he’d retired,” Eames muttered, sounding petulant.

“I’m right here,” Dom said.

“He needs a hobby,” Arthur said.

“Forgery isn’t a _hobby_ , darling, it’s an art.”

“Fine. James and Philippa have both started school, Dom needs _an art_ to keep—“

“—me sharp.”

“—him busy.”

“Hey!”

“Please?”

“For you, pet.”


	53. “Sit down, I’ll get it."

“Sit down, I’ll get it,” Eames said, pushing Arthur back down while he went to fetch his ringing mobile. “What part of _rest_ don’t you understand?”

“It’s a sprain. It’s _barely_ a sprain.”

Eames rolled his eyes. “Hello?”

 _“Hello?”_ The room was quiet and Arthur could hear Dom on the other end. _“I’m… looking for Arthur.”_

“Can I let him know who’s calling?”

_“Wha—? Eames? It’s Dom, where is—“_

“You know I’m sorry, Arthur’s actually not available right now. Can I take message?”

_“What are you, his secretary now?”_

Eames turned to Arthur and grinned. “Now there’s an idea.”

_“Eames!”_


	54. "I made reservations."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can I just say a million and one thank you's to everyone who has been reading and commenting so far -- because honestly, it's just the best thing to wake up to. I've been terrible at commenting back but I read them all and am just overcome with HOW DARLING AND AMAZING AND KIND everyone is. Actual life has been a little rotten lately, and honestly I'm beyond thankful that anyone is still reading this and finding lovely things to say. Cx

“I made reservations,” Arthur said, catching sight of Eames in the mirror behind him, who was scrubby in torn jeans and an old t-shirt.

Arthur finished knotting his tie.

“For…?” Eames crooked an eyebrow.

Arthur laughed, small and shy, flushing down his neck. “For Val—“ and then he stopped, because Eames wasn’t being cute, wasn’t teasing him. “Oh.”

“Darling?” Eames took a step toward him.

“Sorry, it’s nothing. I—it’s nothing. Stupid.” Arthur shoved past him into the en-suite, locked the door, let the room steam hot and white, until he was breathing again.

February 14th. Just another day.


	55. "I don't mind."

“I don’t mind,” Eames explained, kneeling on the bathroom tile in front of Arthur. He had jimmied the lock thirty seconds after Arthur had engaged it, only to find Arthur looking damp and morose, collapsed on the edge of the tub. “If you want to go out, we’ll go out. We’ll paint the bloody town.”

“I don’t want to _force_ you to celebrate Valentine’s Day. I know it’s dumb.”

“Arthur, come downstairs.” Eames stood gracelessly and tugged Arthur to follow him.

Downstairs the apartment flickered dimly, candlelight catching on champagne glasses, rose petals _._

“ _Darling._ Did you really think I’d forgotten?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like I wasn't going to fix THAT.


	56. "It brings out your eyes."

“It brings out your eyes?” Arthur tried, his face twisted up in something like horror, something like amusement.

Eames frowned and touched the thick kelly green material of his sweater with careful fingers.

“Seriously, Eames. I know your sense of style is…dubious, at the best of times. But a wool turtleneck? In July?”

“It was a gift,” he said, his voice soft.

“From who?”

“Your mother.”

“My—what? My mother sent you a sweater?”

“Yes. She said you never wear the ones she knits you but she thought I might. She got a new pattern she’s quite excited about.”


	57. “There is enough room for both of us."

“There is enough room for both of us,” Eames said, in that way he had that sounded like, _Arthur, darling, I adore you utterly, but you’re being ridiculous._

Arthur burrowed further into his sleeping bag, wincing at the bruising press of the floor against his hip.

“I’m not sleeping with you in my _childhood_ bed,” Arthur said, sounding scandalized. “My mother is _just down the hall_.”

“You think she’d mind? Honestly? She keeps saying how desperate she is for some grandbabies.”

“Yeah, I’m going to let _you_ explain to her that’s what we’re trying to do, when she catches us.”


	58. “You don’t have to say anything."

“You don’t have to say anything,” Arthur assured him, when Eames didn’t say anything. “I mean, it’s nothing special…”

Except it was.

It was a birthday cake, waiting for Eames on the kitchen table of Arthur’s childhood home, his name messily scrawled over the on top.

“It’s kind of a family tradition: birthday cake for breakfast. Mom did most of it, so don’t worry—it’s perfectly edible.”

Eames looked from the cake to Arthur, over to Arthur’s mother, who beamed at him from behind her son.

Eames’s throat felt tight.

“Arthur did the frosting,” she said with a wink.

“Mom!”


	59. "Wow."

“Wow,” Eames said, as Arthur led him by the hand out into the backyard. It was warm still, and balmy, even in the dark, and the world seemed impossibly vast and still. The cicadas hummed, a train whistle blew in the distance, and suddenly the air wasn’t just a charcoal smear before his eyes. It was _alive_. Sparks of light flickering on and off, wobbling and dancing.

“Fireflies,” Arthur said, a smile in his voice. “I used to catch them in jars, when I was a kid. Before I realized I was killing them.”

“I can think of worse deaths.”


	60. "Happy Birthday."

“Happy birthday,” Arthur said, standing at the foot of their bed, wrapped head-to-toe in the navy Prada suit that was one of Eames’s favorites.

Eames, already tucked in and yawning, smiled at him dopily. “Far be it for me to keep us from celebrating my birthday all month, pet, but…”

“I thought it better to wait till we were home, to give you this one.” Arthur clambered onto the bed and crawled up the length of Eames, hovering over his warm body, undressed beneath the sheets.

Eames’s hands went to Arthur’s tie and tugged. “I do so love unwrapping you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When you accidentally write a series of Happy Birthday vignettes before actually reaching the "Happy Birthday" prompt. Oops.


	61. "I'll pick it up after work."

“I’ll pick it up after work,” Eames said, his phone wedged between his ear and shoulder as he fumbled change from his pocket to pay for a tea.

“I’ll have them set the boxes aside. There should be three—“

“I _know_. We went over this.”

“Also we need some more sealant, for the tub.”

“Sealant?” Eames smirked.

Arthur sighed. _“Caulk.”_

“Better.” Eames sipped at his tea and stepped out onto the street, noting sight lines and blindspots. Force of habit. But there was no one shooting at him on this job.

“Hey, it was _your_ idea to redo the bathroom.”


	62. “It can wait until tomorrow."

“It can wait until tomorrow,” Arthur decided aloud. He closed his Moleskin and pushed away from his desk.

From the doorway Eames’s face lit up with shock and delight. “Really?”

“I _am_ capable of putting away my work,” Arthur said, and to Eames’s arched eyebrow he finished, “I just usually choose not to.”

“Good to know.”

“You’re going to exploit it constantly, aren’t you?”

“Only for good causes,” Eames said, and sauntered into the office. He cupped Arthur’s jaw and smiled down at him. “The best causes.”

Arthur met him for a kiss and thought, yes, this is more important.


	63. “Cross my heart and hope to die."

“Cross my heart and hope to die,” Eames said, his crooked teeth catching his bottom lip in a cheeky grin. “For my eyes only.”

Arthur dialed into the safe in the closet and withdrew an album, heavy enough to illicit a small grunt as he heaved it into his arms. He carried it into the kitchen and dropped it on the table. “There. Baby photos.”

Eames took a seat and reverently opened the book.

“God, if anyone in Dreamshare ever saw those…”

Eames looked at him, suddenly quite serious. “Darling. Your secrets are my secrets.”

“Yes, I suppose they are.”


	64. “It’s two sugars, right?”

“It’s two sugars, right?” Arthur asked, setting a mug of builders on the sidetable for Eames. They were having a lazy Sunday, tucked away from the grey April drizzle, and Eames had lost himself in an old Hardy Boys book he’d found on the shelf. A slice of American boyhood he found delightful.

Arthur hovered, sugar bowl in hand, and Eames nodded distractedly.Two was a good number, respectful, not too indulgent. He was getting on in years. He should stick with two.

Arthur dropped in three cubes and smirked, before walking away.

God, Eames loved him. Stupidly and completely.


	65. "I'll help you study."

“I’ll help you study,” Eames offered, pulling up a chair. Eames set two coffees on the desk and took up a piece of paper.

“I’m not _studying._ It’s research.”

“Isn’t that the same thing? You’re studying your research. I always know because you get that frowny line on your forehead.”

Arthur grabbed up the coffee and took a long pull of the cheap, burnt liquid. “This? This here? This is not helping me ‘study’.”

“I bet you really hated group projects in school, didn’t you? You were the kid who did the whole thing by yourself, _gladly_. Am I right?”


	66. "Stay over."

“Stay over,” Arthur said. Simple words, harmless words, and yet.

There were two weeks to go on the job. Their chemist was just across the hall; their architect was undoubtedly, insomnically, prowling the floors of the hotel in search of someone desperate and exhausted enough to join him at the bar—often enough that was Eames.

Someone would notice if he didn’t leave Arthur’s room tonight and go back to his own. They’d notice and they’d talk.

The word would spread like wildfire through Dreamshare.

Arthur had to know this.

Arthur, apparently, didn’t care. “Stay,” he said.

“Okay,” Eames said.


	67. "I did the dishes."

“I did the dishes,” Eames said in a rush, before Arthur had the door closed. “And I put away all those clothes I had piled up on the chair. They were clean, I swear it—well, most of them—but. I’ve put them away.”

“Thanks?”

“I also cleaned around the bathroom sink. I know, when I shave it gets a bit—“

“Eames?”

“Yes?”

“I appreciate that you’ve cleaned. I do. But… I just went to the store to grab milk. We were out. I didn’t, you know. _Leave_.”

“Oh.”

“You’re an idiot,” Arthur said fondly. 

“That I can live with.” 


	68. “You didn’t have to ask."

“You didn’t have to ask,” Arthur said, his lips twitching into a smile. “You never have to ask.”

Eames tugged at the hem of his t-shirt—well, it was Arthur’s t-shirt _technically,_ but Eames thought it suited him. It was too small by half, showing a strip of skin above his boxers, and it hugged the curves of his biceps somewhat aggressively. But he _liked_ that.

There was a chance he might make it into a hobby: fitting himself into Arthur’s clothes.

“I bet you wouldn’t say that if I tried to fit into your Zegna suit.”

"Don't you dare."


	69. "I bought you a ticket."

“I bought you a ticket,” Eames said from the bathroom doorway, causing Arthur to turn. Steam billowed out around him, and when it cleared, Eames was leaning casually against the doorframe, a towel slung low on his hips, his skin slick, his tattoos bright. His eyes were serious, intent, though his lips quirked with a hint of familiar playfulness.

“A ticket to… what?” Arthur said dumbly, his tongue dry and heavy in his mouth, suddenly.

Eames took a step forward, keeping his eyes trained on Arthur.

“To the gun show, of course.” He dropped his towel and struck a pose.


	70. “You’re warm."

“You’re warm,” Arthur accused with something like a pout pushing at his lips, standing in front of Eames where he had sprawled out on the couch, languid with dinner and dusk.

“Am I?” Eames asked, raising a lazy eyebrow.

“Probably. You always are.”

“Okay,” Eames said and looked away. He had an idea of what Arthur wanted, but dammit if he wasn’t going to make him ask for it.

“Eames.”

“Yes, darling, light of my life?”

Arthur huffed, his hands on his hips. “I’m cold,” he admitted. _Finally_.

Eames seized him by his belt and dragged him close, enveloped him.


	71. “No reason."

“No reason,” Eames said, breathless and defensive, in answer to Arthur’s arched eyebrow. The kiss had been brief, dry and unexpected. Arthur’d barely had a moment to look up from his Moleskine before Eames’s lips were on his, claiming their focused pout.

Eames was blushing high on his cheeks, just above his line of stubble, and Arthur was both taken with the sight, and suspicious of it. They were on a job. They were not alone.

Arthur glanced over at their chemist, a cute and impressionable young thing. She caught his eyes and looked away.

“No reason at all, huh?”


	72. “I’ll meet you halfway."

“I’ll meet you halfway,” Arthur promised. “I’ll meet you in Bucharest. Caru' cu Bere. We’ll have sarmale with mămăligă, and—“ He broke off, his voice ragged. He was running, hard. Eames could hear it. “You remember Caru—“

“Yes, yes. Of course I remember. Christ, darling.” Eames pulled his hat down further and clocked company out of the corner of his eye. He needed to go now. He needed to trash his phone and get on the next bus out of Kavala. He needed—

Arthur. That’s all he really needed. So he’d go and get him, and make them safe again.


	73. "Take mine."

“Take mine,” Eames urged, thrusting his gun at Arthur, barrel down. Arthur’s own gun hung loose and frustratingly empty in his hand.

A bullet cut through the inch of air between them, and then another; rapid fire. Arthur looked back at Eames, doing math in his head: there were two men in the building across the street, crouched low by the window, a veritable arsenal between them, and Eames couldn’t have more than two shot left. If they were getting out of this, they’d need to be kill shots. Both of them.

“You’re a better shot than me,” Eames said.


	74. "We can share."

“We can share,” Arthur said. When Eames leered, Arthur clarified: “We’re going to _have_ to share. The water heater in this place is a bit janky. I doubt we get more than a few minutes out of it.” As if on cue, the pipes groaned, and a chill swept into the safe house’s tiny bathroom.

“And this proposal started out so promising.”

Arthur looked thoughtful as he tested the lukewarm water starting to spurt from the faucet.

“Think of it as… a challenge.”

“How long did you reckon we had?”

“Three minutes. Maybe five.”

Eames swallowed and grinned. “Challenge accepted.”


	75. "I was just thinking of you."

“I was just thinking of you,” Arthur whispered, reaching for Eames when he came in the room with two chipped mugs of cheap instant coffee—it would be warm, at least, and that would count for a lot tonight. Eames set the drinks on the low, tilted table beside the bed and climbed atop the covers. He folded himself over Arthur’s warm, lax body and held on. Arthur sunk his cold fingers into Eames’s hair, running them along his scalp, and slowly brought Eames’s head to rest against his thudding heart. “I’m always thinking of you,” he admitted.

“Quite right.”


	76. "I want you to have this."

“I want you to have this,” Eames told Arthur, passing him a small square of soft paper, weak where it was folded, as though a gentle hand had been peeling it open and closed for years.

Arthur took it carefully and opened the folds to reveal a phone number in blue ink: England.

“My sister,” said Eames. “We don’t really talk.”

They didn’t talk, and Eames probably knew the number by heart, and still he kept this paper folded inside his pocket. Arthur looked at him and wondered.

“If anything ever happens to me, I want you to—“

“Of course.”


	77. "Call me if you need anything."

“Call me if you need anything,” Arthur called to Eames as he gathered up the keys and went to work on the elaborate set of locks that secured the front door.

“You’re going to shop. You’re literally going to be gone for twenty minutes,” Eames said, coming into the front room. Before Arthur slipped out the door, Eames pick-pocketed the list from his back pocket.

Arthur pretended to look exasperated. “Call me if you _want_ anything, then.”

“Hobnobs?”

“They are already on the list.”

“So they are,” Eames said, and beamed up at the man who knew him so well.


	78. “Do you want to come, too?”

“Do you want to come, too?” Eames asked, securing a gun at the small of his back, hidden under his coat.

 _Yes_ , Arthur thought instantly. Yes he wanted to go. Of course he did. The idea of Eames going alone made him taste metal at the back of his throat. But this was what Eames _did_. He tracked shady souls to shadowy corners and handed over cash in small bills to get what was needed. Papers, in this case, to get them home, no questions asked.

But Eames could take care of himself. Arthur knew this.

“Please come,” Eames said.


	79. “I’ll still be here when you’re ready."

“I’ll still be here when you’re ready,” said Arthur, his voice hitting Eames’s back where he sat on the edge of the bed, facing away. Arthur watched the muscles there ripple and tense, the t-shirt pulled taut across Eames’s shoulders, before his head dropped forward.

“It’s not like that, Arthur.”

But it had to be, he thought, because Eames only called him _Arthur_ when the space between them was cavernous. Precarious. Fragile.

“We only just made it home _alive_. And already you’ve got another job lined up.”

“I couldn’t say no to them.”

“At least you could tell me _why.”_


	80. "Is your seatbelt on?"

"Is your seatbelt on?" Eames asked. The car was idling in the driveway while Eames fidgeted his hands to ten and two, checked his mirrors, remembered to breathe. 

"I know you know how to drive, Eames," Arthur said beside him. 

"Yeah, sure, but--"

Arthur secured his seatbelt, the click resounding in the quiet. 

"Eames, look at me."

Eames did--he never wouldn't--and-- _yes_. Yes. There it was. Arthur. His Arthur, meeting his eyes with a level stare, warm and dark and deadly. 

"When people threaten you," Arthur said, "they're threatening me, too. Let's go make an example of them."


	81. "Sweet dreams."

“Sweet dreams,” Arthur said gently, holding a cup to Eames’s lips while he drank and choked down two morphine pills.

Eames laughed ruefully, then coughed again, and let his head fall back against Arthur’s chest. He was warm now, settled between Arthur’s splayed legs, back to front, and his limbs felt heavy. But the bleeding had stopped—Arthur had seen to that first—and probably only the one rib was broken. He always forgot how much broken ribs stung until he was suddenly and blindingly reminded anew.

“Shhhh,” Arthur whispered, and—had Eames been whimpering? Arthur kissed into his hair.


	82. “I was in the neighborhood."

“I was in the neighborhood?” Eames tried, his easy tone at odds with the questioning twist of his pursed lips, his raised eyebrows: because there Arthur was, meeting him at _their_ door, grabbing the grocery bags from his hands, while someone _else_ moved about their kitchen; the scrape of a pan, the utensil drawer wiggled open wafting toward them.

Arthur shrugged and mouthed _Dom_ , which didn’t really help Eames relax.

“I just thought I’d pop by!” Eames announced loudly.

“You realize I know you guys are living together, right?” Dom said. “The state of this kitchen alone gives it away.”


	83. "Stay there. I’m coming to get you."

“Stay there. I’m coming to get you,” Arthur said, his voice clipped like the sheer edge of a glacier. Eames knew that tone, knew people who _feared_ that tone, who had learned the hard way what it presumed: indelicate rage and swift, merciless action.

Eames understood. Their lives were so full of dangers—the worst people; actual, palpable threats—things they were _prepared for_. It seemed almost too pedestrian that he might go out like this: faulty wiring, an old building up in flames.

“Darling, you’re brilliant, you are. But I’m not sure even you can fight fire.”

“Watch me.”


	84. “The key is under the mat."

“The key is under the mat,” Eames explained, slow with drink and a lazy man’s lust, left to simmer on a long-haul flight from New York.

He leaned against Arthur, their shirts tacky and catching in Mombasa’s relentless November heat, and Arthur wanted to shove him back and peel the fabric from his damp skin. Arthur wanted it _keenly_. To shove Eames, onto a bed, for them to never leave…

But first they needed to get inside.

“You are an internationally wanted criminal and you keep the key to your place _under the mat?”_

 _“_ It’s the last place anyone’d suspect.”


	85. "It doesn't bother me."

“It doesn’t bother me,” Arthur said, as though he was only just realizing it himself. “Maybe it _should_. With anyone else it would. I’ve slit clean through arteries for less. But with you…” The alley was dim and weirdly still, with just the faint night’s sky above them to light their faces, catch their glassy eyes. Arthur stepped close and grabbed Eames hands out of his pockets by the wrists, settling them on his own hips. Arthur touched Eames’s split lip, the tender, darkening skin under his eye.

“I actually kind of like it when you play the possessive boyfriend.”


	86. “You’re important, too."

“You’re important, too,” Eames said lightly, like it was obvious—and it _was_ , even thought they didn’t say it, not every day, not in so many words. “It’s just—“

Arthur sat up in bed and crossed his arms over his bare chest. “It’s just…?”

“You’re not Mandazi.” Eames shrugged and shamelessly stuffed the fried dough into his mouth.

“You left me high and dry to go get _doughnuts_?”

“Don’t knock it ‘till you try it, darling.”

Eames climbed into bed and held a triangle to Arthur’s lips until he relented.

“They’re not very sweet.”

“You’ve certainly got them beat there.”


	87. “I saved you a seat.”

“I saved you a seat.” Arthur patted the hard bench and accepted the to-go cup Eames held out to him, still hot.

“You knew I’d find you,” Eames said, settling down beside him. He kicked his feet out on the grass and leaned back to survey the park; it was still early, and the gravel paths were sparsely dotted with bright-eyed joggers and exhausted parents pushing prams. The air smelled of wisteria and a musk that was singularly Arthur, still drying out from his run.

Arthur laughed, sweet and private, and drank his coffee. “I know you’ll always find me.”


	88. “I’ll see you later."

“I’ll see you later,” Eames said. “I promise.”

“Why does it feel like you’re always the one leaving?” said Arthur quietly. The room was dark, still, with the curtain closed against the dawn, and it felt right to whisper. Like it was the only thing to do, really, to hold onto the dream, where Eames stayed, where the bed didn’t grow cold without him; and Arthur, too.

Eames pushed a curl of hair from Arthur’s eyes and leaned in for goodbye.

“Do you ever get scared I won’t be here when you get back?”

“No,” Eames said. “I trust you.”


	89. “I noticed."

“I noticed,” Arthur announced, collapsing back on the bed, his chest heaving and damp. He smirked over at Eames, laid flat on his stomach, panting into his pillow.

“Noticed what?” he mumbled, not bothering to turn his head.

Arthur couldn’t help but smile wider, brighter, and he thought briefly that Eames would regret missing this—him, flushed, dimples deep and jolly. With some effort, Arthur reached out and gently touched Eames’s ribs, pawing at the bright red die that had been inked there while he was gone.

“This,” Arthur said.

“Oh. That,” Eames said. “Yes, that was rather the point.”


	90. “You can tell me anything."

“You can tell me anything,” Eames said. “You know that, right?”

Still Arthur didn’t turn away from the window. He was curled up in the old leather armchair he liked so much, a mug of cold coffee clutched loosely in one hand. His eyes were open, but they took in nothing save the blank white expanse of the yard.

And this was just how Arthur was, when he was working through a problem, and usually Eames left him to it. But suddenly he thought, maybe Arthur needed reminding.

Arthur blinked up at him at last. “Anything?”

“Yes.”

“I _hate_ pickles.”


	91. “I hope you like it."

“I hope you like it,” said Arthur, when Eames grabbed up his present from under the tree—a small, almost bare little thing Eames himself had salvaged from the edge the property, which hung limply under the weight of a single string of blinking colored lights, but still was, most importantly, _theirs._

Arthur chewed at his thumbnail while Eames unwrapped the neatly done box with the patience and grace a child. He opened the top and paused, before gently withdrawing a small framed picture of the two of them.

“It’s sentimental, I know. And cliche. I’m sorry—“

“Darling. It’s perfect.”


	92. “I want you to be happy."

“I want you to be happy,” Eames whispered against Arthur’s bare skin, when the fire had burned down low and room was lit with embers and fairy lights. He kissed across Arthur’s clavicle, up the column of his neck, settling his hands in the dips of Arthur’s body that seemed made for him, so he might be held just so by Eames’s careful hands, always.

“I am happy,” Arthur said. “I’m so—I never thought I’d get to feel this happy. I didn’t think I deserved—But you. _You.”_ Arthur grabbed Eames’s face and kissed him like only that mattered.


	93. “I believe in you."

“I believe in you,” Arthur said, and his eyes were fierce with it. He needed Eames _to know_. To hear him and understand.

Eames's hands shook where they held Arthur’s wrist, needle at the ready.

“What if you’re wrong?” Eames whispered.

“I’m never wrong.”

Arthur ran his hand over Eames’s and helped him glide the needle deep into Arthur’s vein, his eyes never leaving Eames’s, which were flooded, irrationally, with an animal fear. They’d done this a hundred—a thousand—times. But some jobs were harder than others, and _god,_ he was tired.

“I’ll see you on the other side.”


	94. "You can do it."

“You can do it!” Eames cheered, his hands cupped around his mouth as he shouted down the street.

“I hate you!” Arthur shouted back. The sting was undercut by the tight, nervous tremble of Arthur’s voice, and the squawk-like noise that followed as he struggled to keep the bike upright and moving forward. “You said you wouldn’t let go!”

“That’s how you learn! Honestly, I can’t believe you never learned to ride a bike.”

“Sorry, I was busy learning twenty ways to kill a man with my jump rope.”

“Twenty? Really? I always suspected you had been a precocious child.”


	95. “Good luck."

“Good luck,” Arthur intoned. He reached out to loosen the fat, grossly printed tie Eames had dug out from god knows where, and to ruck up his hair one more time for good measure.

“Where I’m going, I don’t need luck.”

“Only you would say that on the threshold of a casino.”

“That’s most people’s problem with casinos, actually—”

“Yeah, yeah. Write me a treatise on it, will you— _after the job.”_

Eames flashed his crooked teeth. “Do I look thoroughly debauched? Down on my luck? Dissolute?”

Arthur grabbed him and kissed him hard, bruising his lips.

“Yeah, you do.”


	96. “I brought you an umbrella."

“I brought you an umbrella,” said Eames, ducking into the cafe where Arthur was sitting alone at a table near the window, watching it come down outside. He’d gone out an hour ago to the little place down the street to grab them coffees and croissants—their favorite lazy Sunday ritual—and it had been practically sunny then, but then the rain had started up, and Eames couldn’t very well stand the idea of Arthur returning home, half-drowned, with a miserable pout on his face and a soggy breakfast for two.

“I know that sweater is dry-clean only,” Eames explained.


	97. “I’ll pick you up at the airport."

“I’ll pick you up at the airport,” Arthur said, trying to keep some degree of eagerness from his voice, because he had been the one to leave this time, to take the ridiculous job on the other side of the world, to run himself ragged and half-mad trying to wrangle an inexperienced team of excitable novices, and he was _exhausted_ , and hearing the calm timbre of Eames’s voice on the far end of the line just about made him weep. Arthur could do this, and he could do it alone, but he didn’t have to. Eames was coming for him.


	98. “Take a deep breath."

“Take a deep breath,” Eames said, gathering Arthur into his arms. He settled them back to front, and Eames could feel the sharp column of Arthur’s spine through his thin shirt, pressing into his stomach and up his chest. He wrapped his arms around Arthur’s shaking body, one hand over his heart, and began to take exaggerated breaths. In and out, in and out. “That’s right,” Eames said soothingly into Arthur’s ear. “That’s good. Breathe just like I am.” In and out.

It was just them in the warehouse—Eames had seen to that—but their breaths echoed as one.

 


	99. Chapter 99

“Be careful,” Arthur said. “That’s an _order_.”

Eames clamped his fingers in a neat line and held them to his forehead, palm out, in mock salute. “Yes, sir.”

“I’m serious. Don’t do anything stupid. Don’t be a hero—“

Eames scoffed. “You think I’ve gone soft in my old age?”

“I think you’ve gone a little sentimental in your old age, yeah,” Arthur answered. “And I think too many people know—or think they know—how to use me to bait you into doing something rash.”

Eames smiled, though it seemed like the wrong moment, and cupped Arthur’s face. “I promise.”


	100. "I love you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh. My. God. YOU GUYS. THIS IS IT. Day 100. Frankly I'm kind of astonished we made it here, all the way to the end. To you folks who have been reading along every day and commenting: I bow down to you and your kind words, your utter brilliance. You kept me going. The Inception fandom really is unlike any other fandom I've had the pleasure of dabbling (ha ha pun totally intended) in, and all of you are beyond magnificent. These boys. THESE BOYS. They kill me, they really do, and it's been delightful to spent a few months giving them these brief moments of fluff (with the occasional dose of angst because I still am, despite all of this, me). 
> 
> Thank you ever so much, from the very dredges of my heart, for coming along for the ride. xx C

“I love you,” Eames said, pressing desperate kisses to Arthur’s faint dimples, to his closed eyelids, and at last his lips, bitten red with worry. “I know we don’t say it—“

“ _Eames_.”

“I know. _I know_ , darling. But I love you. I love you so much sometimes I think I’ll go mad from it, and I need to know you _know.”_

 _“_ Of course I know. Of course.” Arthur wrapped his arms tighter around Eames, pressing against him, resting his hands on Eames’s neck. “I love you,” he said, quiet but steady. Sure.

“Marry me.”

“What?”

“Arthur Darling. _Marry me.”_

“ _Yes_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because, I mean, those are Shakespeare rules, aren't they?


End file.
